


Little flame

by shootertron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Public Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, commander/subordinate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:18:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shootertron/pseuds/shootertron
Summary: Drift remembers when he was Deadlock, and who he was dear to.Warning for romanticized power imbalances and all the skeeviness (read: consent issues) they entail :P





	Little flame

**Author's Note:**

> I love this BDSM shit.

He remembers now:

Familiar feelings stir between his legs, in his chest, in that place where the Commander had been.

Many centuries past:

Turmoil had pressed his spark against Deadlock's so forcefully until they were fused together in a burst of liquid fire, until Deadlock could feel Turmoil in his very essence, tightly embracing body and soul.

Had Deadlock shed a tear then? From sorrow (did he have a say in this)? Joy?

Drift remembered how they rutted together afterwards, a frenzied fucking so forceful his body bounced up and down on the berth. He wouldn't be surprised if he had wept, freely, recognizing Turmoil as the one to whom he'd given body and soul.

From then on Turmoil merged with him many times, enormous spark wrapped around Deadlock’s, unwilling to let go. Deadlock had never been happier.

Deadlock felt like the most precious jewel of the galaxy under Turmoil, being utterly filled with him, the massive spike hitting deep in that sweet spot, filling his valve and tank almost to bursting. As he lay on the berth in the aftermath of that overload, eyes moist, he wondered where this feeling had been all his life.

Deadlock was no stranger to interface, but Turmoil was different. Turmoil had filled something in him that no other mech had before (and it wasn’t just because of the impressive size of his organ!). Deadlock put his hands over the lines of his belly, feeling the transfluid that warmed his holding tank.

How many more times he would feel this way! Whenever Turmoil wanted him he would have him. In Turmoil’s quarters, in the washrack, in the mess hall, on dropships and on the terrain of alien worlds. Mixed fluids wetting the dirt, consecrating it.

Or perhaps it was Deadlock riding Turmoil’s spike desperately, slamming down onto the tank and clutching until his claws gouged lines into black matte metal. Edging closer and closer into ecstasy, body overcome with heat. Yowling fiercely as he climaxed, back arched beautifully.

As long as he was Turmoil’s, other, lesser Decepticons dared not lay hands on him. Turmoil would have killed them before they could get close enough. And if any superior commanders wanted Deadlock, he would refuse and let Turmoil fight them off. He did not deign them worthy to fight himself.

Turmoil would emerge victorious, and claim his gladiator’s prize:

Deadlock wreathed in crimson silks, empire-toppling beauty, smirking and kissing Turmoil’s bloodied face as the Commander swept him off his feet. In the embrace of his commander, the notorious Deadlock seemed more delicate, but no less dangerous.

How Turmoil flaunted his beautiful one.

“Walk” and Deadlock would walk on all fours, ornate collar around his neck and the other end of the leash in Turmoil’s massive hand. When Turmoil’s erect spike brushed against his cheek, he would take it in his mouth and suck it sensuously, kissing it.

When Turmoil said “Open,” he felt compelled to obey, displaying his luscious valve lips for all to see.

“Bend over” and he would, in front of this cheering audience.

Turmoil could take him in public, and afterwards hold open his gaping valve dripping with their mixed fluids as proof of their union. He would mark Deadlock’s chassis with transfluid, and fondle Deadlocks’s spark where all could see, and Deadlock would feel completely safe.

A commander giving his dear one pleasure? It was nothing to be ashamed of.

Turmoil belonged to him, and he belonged to Turmoil. He couldn't think of a bond more sacred.

The strong protecting, claiming the weak; it was the purest form of love.

It was the Con way.

How could outsiders understand?

Drift was a secretive mech, and of his relationship to Turmoil he spoke little. He didn’t want pity, or disgust at what other Autobots would perceive as Turmoil’s barbarism. He knew how he felt, and it would be a lie he felt any other way. His lips were sealed. And his chest plates were shut tightly too, like a windowless prison, or perhaps, a locked treasure chest holding a magic lamp, wrapped up layers of miraculous cloth.

He kept this little orb of flame burning inside him, guarding it carefully long after the blaze it had come from had sputtered out. And when he was alone he would unlock the chest, take the magic lamp out, and watch it project golden stars and moons across the walls of the room.


End file.
